


The Devil Don’t Sleep

by sailormade



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Gen, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23603113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailormade/pseuds/sailormade
Summary: Short SEAL Team ficlets based off of randomly generated words.• tags will be added as they occur.—CHAPTER 9 — SEEN.It was ugly already, not even forty-eight hours afterward; The shape of a terrorist’s hand, deep violet in color and tinged blue around the edges, like the hypoxic lips of a dying man, or the late evening sky before a twister. It almost camouflaged the long, thin scar on the side of his throat. From a knife wound, no doubt. Clay brushed his thumb against that, too.“Not really,” Brian said. “I didn’t think I’d live this long, to be honest.”He paused, seeming to steady himself, then continued, “I figured I’d starve to death first. There were a few times I really thought that I was—that it was over right then and there.”
Comments: 46
Kudos: 185





	1. OBLITERATE.

**Author's Note:**

> my laptop is dead right now, but i’ve really been wanting to write and upload again, so ... i decided to write short little ficlets on my ipad. :sparkles: drop a word or five, if you’d like — if i get inspired, i just might use it. 
> 
> please lemme’ know what you guys think. love u.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trent is angry. And lethal.

**01\. OBLITERATE.**

This wasn’t sober behavior. Nor was it sailor behavior. There was no honor in what Trent was so savagely doing. And certainly no courage.

Trent Sawyer drove his knee harder into the tango’s sternum, pressing the lanky, yellow-toothed man deeper into the viscous mud. He could feel bones splintering under his weight — and, God help him, he enjoyed every slow second of it. Trent raised the stock of his AK-47 high over his head and brought it down with all the strength that he could muster to smash the tango’s skull in a little further.

 _Crunch. Splatter. Crunch. Splatter. Crunch._ Blood sprayed Trent’s face and wet his skin like rainwater. He grunted with effort as he smashed and smashed and smashed again. 

From a medical standpoint, Trent knew that he’d mortally wounded the man. Truly, God himself would struggle to heal the injuries inflicted (And after this display, God would probably struggle to forgive Trent, too).

But the tango could still feel, and Trent wanted the bastard to suffer. He wanted to feel the reverberation of this tango’s bones crunching in the palms of his hands, and up through the tendons in his arms. If he were going to sleep tonight, Trent needed to see brain matter.

His own rage rattled him. Clay wasn’t hurt that badly. Just a through-and-through gunshot wound that a few stitches would take care of and a grade two concussion. Did the tango’s crime really warrant such animalistic punishment? Before Trent wandered out into the evening, Clay had been cracking jokes. 

The South American air sweltered around Trent, suffocating and humid. It was like breathing through a damn sponge. Above him, the gunmetal sky rumbled ominously. A storm was coming, no doubt. And so was Death and his scythe.

Trent wondered: What would his sweet Darcy Anne think if she saw him like this? And their precious baby girls? He and Darcy spent well over a decade trying to conceive. Would she regret that choice if she were standing beside him now? Trent imagined the terror on all their faces, the absolute revulsion, and he imagined them cowering in fear of him.

He raised the stock of his gun and brought it down again. And again. And again. A slick mess of mud and sweat and blood trickled down his face—

Hmm. Face. The tango didn’t have one of those anymore. Trent had thoroughly obliterated him. And he kept on. And on. And on. Trent didn’t stop until he felt Jason grab him by the shoulder and haul him off.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Jason half-whispered, half-shouted. “What in the hell is wrong with you, Trent? Have you lost your goddamn mind? Get the hell back to base! And when we get back to Virginia, you better march your ass to an A.A. meeting!” 

A muscle ticked in Trent’s jaw. “Yessir, Bossman.”


	2. HOVER.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay is sick. Adam hovers.

**02\. HOVER.**

“Can you stop with your damn mother-henning?” Clay groused, swatting at Adam’s hand. “Jesus, you’re worse than Ray. I’m fine, old man.”

“You have the flu,” Adam said matter-of-factory. “Now stop your bellyaching so I can see if your fever broke. Last thing we need is you infecting the rest of Bravo. And don’t call me old. I can still kick your ass.”

With a defiant huff, Clay folded his arms across his chest and leaned back into the couch while Adam pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. For a brief moment Adam said nothing. His brows were furrowed in concentration. Clay felt like a child again—not that his own father ever cared enough to check him for a fever when he was young, but still; Grown men, Navy SEALs and Tier One Operators, don’t get checked for fevers. Children do.

“You’re still burning up, Spenser,” Adam said, pulling his hand away. “I’m gonna’ get you another dose of Tylenol. It’s been about four hours.”

“C’mon—all you have are PMs! It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. I don’t want to fall asleep now and wake up at three in the morning, wondering what century I’m in.”

“Too bad,” Adam said, “You need the rest. And when you wake up, just come wake me up, and I’ll get you another dose.”

Clay narrowed his eyes at Adam’s back as Adam walked away and into the kitchen, presumably to get the Tylenol.

Having somebody care for him while he was sick felt unsettlingly foreign, and Clay wasn’t sure how to navigate how he felt. During the evening before, after showing up unannounced with two bags full of groceries, Adam had tossed a pillow and a blanket at him and gruffly told him to “lay his ass down” on the couch until the soup was done—because, apparently, Adam Seaver was so concerned for his wellbeing that he was making him chicken soup. From scratch.

Clay didn’t understand why Adam was playing mother hen to him, but he didn’t hate the affection. It felt nice, almost. He idly wondered why Ash couldn’t love him enough to make soup and check him for a fever. Wistfully, Clay wished that he could go back in time and be a better kid so that Ash could love him enough to check him for a fever. Just once.

“Alright,” Adam said as walked back into the room, pulling Clay from his thoughts. “Two Tylenol and eight ounces of water, then back to sleep. And if you refuse, I’ll beat you with your puke bucket.”

“Hey, don’t hate on the puke bucket,” Clay said. “Better I vom in the bucket than on my new carpet.”

“Vomit would be an improvement,” Adam retorted, handing Clay two little white pills.

He waited for Clay to pop them in his mouth before handing Clay a glass of water. Clay downed the pills and drained the glass before laying back down. He reached for the blanket pooled at his ankles, but Adam beat him to it and pulled the blanket over his body. Warmth spread through Clay’s chest, and his eyes suddenly felt suspiciously wet.

“Shuddup about my expensive new carpet,” He muttered. “You know, you’re gonna’ get yourself sick if you keep babying me. I’ll be fine.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Adam said.

He lifted Clay’s feet and sat in their spot before dropping them onto his lap.

“I’ve got a sixteen year old daughter, Clay. I’ve had the flu more times than I can count. I’ll be fine, too.”

Clay squeezed his eyes shut to keep the tears at bay. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he didn’t.

Adam must understand, because Clay suddenly felt a comforting squeeze on his ankle.

“Go to sleep, kid,” Adam said. “You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

And Clay did.


	3. HOUR.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay bleeds. Sonny hopes. Ray prays.

**03\. HOUR.**

Bravo Team was working well-within the Golden Hour, and Clay wasn’t in what Trent called “The Triad of Death” yet—both of which were good things apparently, two reasons to hold onto hope.

Sonny disagreed. Vehemently. His favorite person on the planet, _his very best friend,_ was hemorrhaging from a bullet wound to the throat. Bleeding out between Trent Sawyer’s deft fingers quicker than Trent could transfuse him.

“Hang on, little buddy,” Sonny said, squeezing Clay’s clammy, blood-wet hand. “Help is coming. Help is almost here. We got you. _I_ got you, okay?”

Clay’s eyes were glassy and wide as they peered up at Sonny, bright with tears and terror. If he died right here, right now, inside some dimly lit, rundown shack on the outskirts of Iraq, that look in his ridiculously blue eyes would haunt Sonny until Kingdom Come.

Ray Perry sat at Clay’s feet, muttering a prayer. And to their left, Master Chief Jason Hayes and Brock Reynolds stood guard at the only window, weapons raised. 

“You’re gonna be just fine,” Sonny continued. “The bird’ll be here soon, and the docs will getcha’ all fixed up, and when you wake up you’ll be in the hospital and I’ll have already _tactically_ _brought in_ some waffles fries for you, okay? Just hang on for me. Hang on, buddy.”

Clay managed a wobbly little smile. His teeth were red with blood.

Through his tears, Sonny smiled back.

“What’s the ETA on that chopper?” Trent loudly asked.

Sonny jerked, startled by the outburst, but didn’t let go of Clay’s hand. He squeezed it tighter.

“Four mikes out,” Jason replied sternly. “How’s Spense’ doing, Bravo Four?”

“Hanging in there, but I’m down to my last bag of blood—“ Trent said with a grunt, frustrated as he continued to hold pressure on Clay’s wound.

He lowered his voice and, without looking away from Clay, said to Sonny, “We’re entering the first house in the Triad of Death. His ability to coagulate is going. We’ve got to get him out of here. Now. Once this ball starts rolling. . . It’s damn near impossible to stop.”

Panic seized Sonny’s heart—froze the damn blood in his veins and his ability to breathe, panic clawed like a wild animal at the back of his throat. He wanted to scream. And scream. And scream.

—And he wanted to punch Ray in the throat; Sonny could hear him praying a Hail Mary. Why? Clay wasn’t even Catholic. It was a selfish prayer, for a selfish reason, and Sonny wanted to hit Ray for it.

“Does Clay have four mikes left?” Sonny asked instead.

His own voice sounded foreign to his ears.

Trent nodded. “He should, as long as I keep holdin’ pressure. And Ray keeps prayin’.”

 _He should._ Sonny held on to Trent’s words like a lifeline, like an anchor in a storm on the high seas. Clay should live for another four minutes. He should live long enough to be passed into the steady, practiced hands of corpsman. He should. He should.

He did.

(And, true to his promise, Sonny brought Clay a box of his favorite waffle fries. Extra Large. With a Pepsi. Extra ice.) 

.

.

.

(One of the corpsman on Clay’s case, a blue-sider by the name of HM2 Montgomery, chased Sonny out of the room with her clipboard. Clay laughed around a mouthful of fries. Sonny laughed, too.)


	4. TEETH.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cerberus is a good boy.

**04\. TEETH.**

“Go, boy, go!” Brock shouted, shoving Cerberus’ shoulder as hard as he could manage with a dislocated shoulder. “Go!”

Cerberus refused to go; Instead, he barked again, sharp and short, like the crack of a gunshot—the damned dog was as stubborn as his handler.

Though it broke his heart to do so, Brock shoved him again. Hard. “Cerberus! Go!”

Cerberus stayed.

Brock groaned and let his eyes slip shut. He didn’t mind dying before he reached thirty five, he knew the price he may have to pay when he signed that Special Operator contract, but Cerberus shouldn’t have to die with him. The tangos closing in all sides wouldn’t waste precious bullets on a fleeing dog. Cerberus knew the way to their mobile base; He could make it back. He could make it home.

Ray Perry would take Cerberus back to Virginia Beach and give him a good life. The paperwork had already been filed. Brock felt at peace with that.

But Cerberus wouldn’t leave Brock’s side. He lay flat on Brock’s stomach, barking and whining, begging in his own way for Brock to get up.

But Brock couldn’t. He tried. _God, did he try._ Over and over and over again, Brock tried to force himself to his feet. Hell, to his knees. But the blood that poured from the wound on the left side of his gut told him that he’d been shot, and his shoulder—slumped at a painful angle—wasn’t anywhere near its socket, and he couldn’t feel his legs.

Brock prayed that the numbness came from shock, and not paralysis. He’d rather die here, lying in dust and blood and debris, than spend the rest of his life in a chair.

“Cerb, please,” Brock pleaded, voice cracking over the words; He ran his fingers through the thick fur of Cerberus’ neck with his good hand. “Go. Get Bravo Two, boy. Get Ray. Be safe. Go be safe.”

His hand slipped from Cerberus’ fur as Cerberus stood. Relief flooded through Brock. Thank God, and baby Jesus too, that the dog finally listened. Brock’s eyes were too heavy to pry open. And he felt too cold.

That couldn’t be a good sign, feeling cold in the middle of the desert. And numb from the waist down. But at least Cerberus would be alright.

_Or not—_

Brock felt hot, wet breath on his neck, all of a sudden. And something cold—a decidedly canine nose—behind his ear. It only took Brock a moment to realize what Cerberus was about to do.

Cerberus sunk his teeth into Brock’s body armor, right at the shoulder, and began to pull with all the might that an eighty five pound dog could muster. It was a hopeless endeavor, one that would get them both killed, but Cerberus refused to give up.

Come Hell or high water, that dog was taking his handler to Ray Perry.

“Bad dog,” Brock slurred. “Leave me. Go! Go!”

Cerberus stopped, barked, and then continued to slowly, slowly, slowly but surely drag Brock through the remains of the embassy building. Outside the crumbling walls, they both heard gunfire. And shouting.

 _Shouting_. Brock heard a lot of foreign dialect, and a little botched English, and he quietly braced himself for the lethal shot the he knew was coming. Or blow, if the tangos were feeling particularly vengeful. He could do this. He could die with bravery—or some semblance of dignity, at least.

And then, like a ray of light from above, Brock heard a familiar voice.

“Brock! Trent, Jay! Over here! I found him! Hey, Brock!”

Clay. The voice belonged to Clay. God bless that impulsive, reckless, loud mouthed little idiot. Brock could’ve kissed him.

(Okay, well. Gross. Not really. But the sentiment remained. Brock was going to buy Clay some top shelf tequila when they got back to Virginia.)

Brock still couldn’t pry his tired eyes open, but he felt Clay touching his clammy face, heard his reassurances, telling him to stay perfectly still.

Brock did his best to nod. He didn’t trust himself to talk.

Cerberus barked.

“Good boy,” Brock heard Clay say. “Good boy, Cerberus. You’re gettin’ a steak when we get home. Sonny’ll grill it for you and everything.”

Brock agreed. Good boy, indeed.


	5. KETCHUP.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian Armstrong does what he does best. Negotiates. 
> 
> • feat. nonsense references from the discord server.  
> • brian’s ridiculous shorts:  
> https://bornprimitive.com/products/the-wod-jhorts-denim?variant=29200525885539&gclid=EAIaIQobChMIgN_A8-zy6AIVnvrjBx2WWAsIEAQYASABEgLypvD_BwE  
> • this one is for my buddy in athletics, writing, and beyond—burnmedown. ❤️ only you would tolerate this absolute bafoonery. but it’s soft bafoonery. the jorts are still sending me though.💀

**05\. KETCHUP.**

“What?” Clay asked, the information not quite registering.

“I asked you to marry me,” Brian said again, like it was the easiest thing in the world—like he was asking Clay for one of his waffle fries. “So, you know—marry me.”

Clay blinked. Brian ... couldn’t be serious. They were sitting in a fucking Chik-Fil-A.

“Brian, I don’t—What? Are you serious, man?”

Brian didn’t have to answer. Clay could tell by the earnest, doe-eyed look on Brian’s face that yes, he was absolutely serious. Contrary to popular belief, Brian Armstrong wasn’t all that hard to read if you knew him well enough. The challenge, however, was actually getting to know him; Clay had an easier time graduating BUD/S _and_ Sniper C-School than getting Brian to open up about, well, anything. 

But now, years after meeting him, and operating next to him, Clay did know Brian. And he knew him well. And, yeah, it really did seem as though Brian just proposed to him in the middle of a notoriously homophobic fast food restaurant with no ring, no plan, and while wearing a pair of fucking jean shorts. 

“Look,” Brian started, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the greasy, chipped table. “I know that I haven’t had the best track record with marriage, okay? I know. And I know I come with more baggage than a Delta Flight in June—“

Clay laughed.

“But I love you,” Brian said vehemently, and the laugh died on Clay’s lips; How did those words come so easily to Brian? How could he say them so freely? And so without trepidation? “And I want to marry you. And I have waited, _very patiently,_ might I add, _Clayton_ , for you to get your head out of your lily white ass but—I’m transferring off Green Team as soon the rest of my damn parachute injuries heal, and I already have my JAG Corps packet filled out. I can’t marry you after I graduate OCS so ... Marry me now. Today. And we’ll have a big, ridiculous, over-expensive wedding later. Or not. Whatever. Doesn’t matter— Oh! And we can get rings tomorrow.”   


Clay couldn’t find words. His throat felt tight and small, and his eyes dangerously close to damp. He sat there, stunned into silence, overwhelmed with emotion, while Brian dipped a chicken strip into an ungodly amount of ketchup and took a huge, messy bite of it.

“I—but Stella. I have a damn girlfriend, Brian, what the hell is this?”

His own voice sounded far away. Like someone else. 

Brian lifted a brow. “Really? When’s the last time you even talked to Stella? Three days? Four? _I_ talk to her more than you do. And we actually talk, ya know. All you guys do is argue. And have sex. And argue some more. That’s it. She’s your fuckbuddy, not your girlfriend, and it’s ruining your friendship with her. Face the music, man. Stella hasn’t been you girlfriend in weeks.”

“She’s not my fuc—Wait, when’s the last time _you_ talked to her?”

“I snapped her last night while you were whining about Jason Hayes. Our streak is almost up to twenty five. We really need a group chat, by the way.”

Clay groaned. “Oh my God.”

“We’re getting off track,” Brian said. “So, will you break off your passionless, dead-end relationship and marry me?”

“You’re insane,” Clay said, leaning back in his chair; It squeaked against the tile floor. “You are actually insane. You sound like your first wife, that’s how crazy you sound right now. Holy shit.”

“Stella can be one of our witnesses. She won’t be mad. You’ve been together, what, a month and a half? Not even officially. Not to mention that she knows we were a thing before Green Team. So, it’s not like it’ll be a huge shock or anything.”

“It won’t be a shock when I break up with her to marry your overgrown deep southern ass?”

“You’re not actually breaking up with her because your sad, sad relationship already dissolved into next to nothing by itself and neither of you want to man up and rip the bandaid off by ending it officially. Be nice about it though, because me and Stella are _actually_ best friends now. We’ve become a package deal.”

Jealously reverberated through Clay’s bones. “I thought I was your best friend.”

“I rather you be my husband.”

Clay inhaled through his nose, and exhaled through his mouth. Tried to ground himself. He felt as irritated as he did endeared.

“Brian, we can’t just. . . get married,” Clay said slowly, carefully. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Ugh, yeah we can. I’ve been married three times, if you recall. Courthouse doesn’t close until 20:00. It’s 14:30.”

Clay pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know that isn’t what I meant.”

The air between them grew heavy, all of a sudden, and Brian got that determined look in his eye—the one that meant he was about to absolutely destroy somebody in a court of law; Clay braced himself for inevitable impact. 

“Clayton Michael Spenser, I love you,” Brian said matter-of-factly. “You are self-centered and arrogant and egotistical to a nauseating degree and, sometimes, the biggest fucking douchebag I have ever met in my life—but you are brave, and you are courageous and kind, and you would give your life for anyone that asked, and you are a better man than your father could ever hope to be, and I love you, and I have loved you since that night at Mardi Gras when we danced to Delta Rae in the streets until four in the goddamn morning. I am not asking you this on a whim. I want to be your husband because I love you, and I have loved you for a long damn time, and I knew if I put on a suit and got down on one knee you’d freak the hell out. So, I’m asking you now. Marry me.”

“But I’ve never—“ Clay began, voice soft. “I’ve never said—I don’t know how to say it. I can’t say it.”

He almost wanted to cry. He wanted to say it to Brian, not for the first time, but those three little words felt so cheap coming from his mouth. He’d used them on his father as a shield against the man’s wrath, and to placate his neurotic mess of a mother, and after awhile they lost all meaning. They were just words. Air. Bullshit.

And Brian deserved better than that.

“You don’t have to,” Brian said. “Because I already know. I already know, Clay. You don’t have to say it with words, you show it. And that’s enough.”

The dam in Clay’s eyes didn’t break, but it did crack. He felt the wetness start to run down his cheeks. Brian reached across the table to wipe the tears away with his thumb, the soppy romantic bastard.

“We’re in a fucking Chik-Fil-A at 14:30,” Clay said, voice breaking; He was half-laughing, half-crying. “There’s ketchup and chicken grease on your shirt, you pig. And you’re wearing those hideous gay ass fucking shorts, Brian—Jesus, this is crazy! You are insane!” 

“Hey!” Brian protested. “What’s wrong with my shorts?”

Because of course, _of course,_ Brian Armstrong wouldn’t see anything wrong with his too-tight jean shorts. He had the fashion sense of blind man from Louisiana. 

“Okay.” Clay finally said. 

Brian dared to smile. “Okay?”

“Yes, okay, you dirty giant ketchup covered cornball, I’ll marry you—on one condition.”

Brian’s smile stretched into a blinding grin. “What’s that?”

“I get to take your name. If I’ve got a chance to get rid of _Spenser_ , I’m taking it.”

.

.

.

( _FOUR HOURS LATER_

“This has got to be the sweetest, most ghetto thing I’ve ever witnessed,” Lisa said, bumping Stella’s shoulder with her own. “I can’t believe I agreed to this. Master Chief Seaver is going to lose his damn mind.”

”Eh, it’ll be fine. We’ll invite him to the reception.” )


	6. FAITH.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray ponders. 
> 
> • how do we feel about characterization up to this point? it’s been a cool minute since i’ve played with these door kickers lol.  
> • also alana survived the s2 car crash. we good? we good.

**06\. FAITH.**

The Bible says, “Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord,” in chapter twelve of Romans. And Ray Perry agreed—truly, down to the pit of his soul, he agreed—but Jason was lying half-dead in a hospital bed, bones broken and skin scorched to Hell, and well ... Ray wanted payback. Fury simmered just under the surface of his skin.

Like Satan tempting Eve with the fruit of the Tree of Life, Ray felt tempted by the sweet promise— _the sweet taste_ —of vengeance. He ached for it deep in his bones. His fingers twitched around his little styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee, itching to wrap themselves around the stock and trigger of a gun.

Jason nearly died. _Jason_ , his brother in every imaginable way. Alana was nearly left widowed. Their two children almost left fatherless.

Someone needed to pay. Ray needed to send the responsible party to Hell himself, and he needed to do so more than he needed to draw breath.

‘I will repay, saith the Lord,’ Ray thought to himself. ‘I will repay ... The Lord will repay. He will judge. Him alone, not me.’

The truth of the matter didn’t make him feel any better. More than anything else, Ray felt tired. He couldn’t wield his rage like a weapon the way that Jason could. And Trent Sawyer. His own anger only made him feel burnt out and weary, and restless in the worst of ways.

Alana sat, wheelchair bound, at Jason’s bedside; And Mikey, not even thirteen years old, sat in her lap; Emma, bless her kind, fierce heart, was in bed with Jason, curled into his side.

The scene before Ray felt unimaginable, heart-wrenching and unfair, and heavy with grief and fear—but it had come to pass, and so it had to be apart of God’s plan. God’s purpose.

But that didn’t make the situation fair. It only made it just.

“You look awful deep in though, Ray,” Came Sonny’s voice; He sounded tired, but there was a tinge of humor in his words too—thank God for Sonny Quinn and sweet, boisterous spirit. “Penny for yer’ thoughts?”

Ray shrugged. “Just worrying about Jay.”

Sonny snorted. “That ain’t nothing new. O’ Master Chief is a damn magnet for trouble.”

A beat of silence passed, and Sonny spoke again, “Ya know, Doc says he’ll be okay, so don’t worry too hard—you gotta’ save some for the rest of us. Spenser especially, little shit that he is.”

Ray chuckled. “I know, I just ... I’m tired, man. It’s been a long week. And an even longer day.”

“Go home and sleep, then,” Sonny said. “Kiss your wife. Play with your babies. Jason’ll be okay without you for awhile. The rest of us are here to keep the watch.”

Ray knew that Sonny was right; He really needed to go home and check on Naima, and bearhug Jameelah and R.J. goodnight, but he still felt reluctant to leave Jason despite knowing that he was in good hands.

At the end of the day, Jason’s life and wellbeing was ultimately in God’s hands, and Ray believed that Jason wasn’t done in this life yet. Not by a long shot.

And so Ray finally said, “Thanks, brother. If I leave, you and Spenser won’t get into too much trouble, will you?”

Sonny grinned crookedly. “I’ll keep him in line.”

A blatant lie, if Ray had ever heard one. He chuckled again, a little easier this time, and gave Sonny’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Be back in the mornin’, Son’. Call me if anything changes.”

Sonny promised that he would, and Ray went home.


	7. ACCIDENT.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> clay has a minor accident. trent patches him up. they talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **tw: mentions of child abuse, alcoholism.**
> 
> any requests for the next chapter? [eyes emoji.]

**07\. ACCIDENT.**

Blood oozed, thick and lazy, like the slow pour of molasses, from Clay’s left forearm. The cut wasn’t too deep, all things considered. Certainly nothing that two occlusive dressings and half a roll of tactical grade medical tape wouldn’t fix. But Clay kept quiet as Trent cleaned his wound with iodine— _he didn’t so much as flinch_ —and that worried Trent far more than the bleeding that he’d already controlled. 

A quiet Clay Spenser was akin to a dog refusing to eat; His silence, like a dog’s apathy, was the first sign that something was wrong. 

Trent carefully wrapped and taped Clay’s wound in the occlusive dressing as he asked, “So, you gonna’ tell me what’s goin’ on with you? Or am I going to have to pry it out of Sonny?” 

Clay shrugged and said nothing. Something distinctly paternal tugged in Trent’s chest. Despite Clay being a man of twenty seven years, and a man who happened to be a Second Class Special Operator in the world’s greatest Navy, he looked . . . pitiful. And far more fragile than his physical prowess suggested. 

In that moment, Clay reminded Trent of his own two daughters, six years old and born two minutes and twenty four seconds apart; Clay looked like Anabelle when she was lying, poorly, to keep her sister, Beatrice, out of trouble. He looked guilty. And scared. And too close to tears for Trent’s comfort. 

“You in trouble?” Trent asked, trying to pry a little deeper. “Cause’ if you need help, I’ll help. Lord knows I’ve needed more help than I ever deserved over the years. Talk to me, Clay.” 

Clay didn’t have a decent poker face on a good day, but right now . . . He looked a hare’s breath away from coming unhinged, sitting stiffly in his chair, as though he didn’t belong in his own kitchen, as though he were preparing to bolt. His eyes were glassy and half-lidded, gazing intently at the floor, though focusing on nothing. Outwardly, Clay seemed subdued and still, a whisper of himself, but his radial pulse betrayed him; Trent felt the beat of Clay’s heart thundering wildly in his wrist. 

“He hit me again.” Clay finally said. 

“Okay,” Trent said, keeping his voice carefully even; He felt the anger beginning to rise in him already, but he subdued it the best that he could. “Can you tell me who hit you?” 

A beat of silence passed, and then Clay said, “My dad.” 

Trent squeezed Clay’s hand and said nothing, waiting for Clay to continue. 

“And I don't—it’s stupid. _I’m stupid._ I don't know why I’m so fucking pissed about him taking a swing at me. I mean, he used to beat on me all the time when I was kid. Before he threw me away, that is. God knows this wouldn’t be the first time. When I was four? He broke my arm in three places. Seriously—who hates their fucking toddler so much that they break their arm? What kind of goddamn animal do you have to be? I don't even believe in spanking." 

“My dad hit me too,” Trent said, because it was true, and because if he dwelled on the thought of Ash Spenser smacking his baby boy around he’d pick up a bottle of Jack and never stop drinking—then hunt Ash down and beat him with the bottle; And he wasn’t about to give that PNGed piece of shit his sobriety. Or freedom. “And then he died. Cirrhosis of the liver. And I’m still pissed sometimes, too. It’s okay to be pissed, Clay, and it's okay to not forgive him. _It's okay to not want to forgive him._ You didn’t deserve that. No child does.” 

“I wish my old man would die.” 

“I know,” Trent said. “But you’re not him, kid. You couldn’t be if you tried. That damn Labrador heart of yours wouldn’t ever let ya’. Just—don’t be so hard on yourself. And, for the love of God, be more careful when you cook so I can stop taping you back together.”

Clay wiped at his damp eyes with the palms of his hands and chuckled. Trent smiled, soft and sore, and chuckled with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't ... love how this turned out but I'M BACK BABEY.


	8. CIRCUMSTANCE.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trent curses circumstance. then does something about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another trent one, i know. sorry this is shorter than usual. i'm easing myself back into writing. inspiration isn't coming as easy.  
> next chapter: would ya'll prefer something whumpy/angsty or something fun? 
> 
> ambiguous ending.

**08\. CIRCUMSTANCE.**

“I know it hurts, sweetheart,” Trent said gently, taping down the large bore IV that he’d placed in her arm. “I know, I’m sorry, but it’s going to make you feel better, okay? I promise.” 

The little girl, who couldn’t have been more than six years old, blinked at him with wide, glassy brown eyes. Trent felt the confusion—a _nd_ _the sheer terror_ —radiating off of her in waves; It was clear that she didn’t understand English. Or where she was. Or why these big, scary men in body armor and big helmets had plucked her from her corpse-strewn, war-torn home. She looked heart-wrenchingly tiny in Clay’s arms, streaked in dirt and grime and her father’s blood, clothes ragged and torn, dangerously underweight. 

All that Trent wanted to do was gather her in his arms and hold her tight; He wanted to dial Darcy’s number with his bloody, dirty fingers and ask her, desperately, “Can we keep her? Please? She doesn’t have anyone. But she could have us.” But Trent knew that whim was only a fantasy. A wildly expensive, unrealistic one at best. A pipedream, at worst. He sighed to himself. 

Clay lovingly muttered something to her in Arabic. She sniffled and burrowed deeper into his embrace. Trent continued to secure her IV. 

He kept his eyes low, focused on his work, while Clay hummed a soft song to her in Arabic. It must’ve been a cultural song, something well-known in the area, because the little girl hummed along with him. Her eyes drooped, tired. Trent was grateful that she felt safe enough with Clay to even try to sleep. 

He couldn’t help but remember when he introduced Clay to his own twin girls, Anabelle and Beatrice, during a Fourth of July cookout at Sonny’s place. Vivid images, sacred memories, charged to the forefront of his mind: the way that Clay’s eyes had lit up like Christmas lights when Anabelle rushed to hug his leg, how he’d fawned over the monogrammed yellow bows in their hair (courtesy of their angel-faced wildcard of a mother, whom Trent wouldn’t trade for anything), the way he’d looked with Anabelle tucked under one arm, and Beatrice under the other, as he read them an early bedtime story. And, dear Lord in Heaven, he even did the scary monster voices for them.

Clay was paternal by nature, and in this moment, Trent ached for him.

In Clay's arms, a scared little orphan girl slept; And back in Virginia Beach, an empty apartment awaited Clay's return. Clay wanted a family. She needed a family. But circumstance kept the two of them apart, just as circumstance kept that brave little girl out of Trent’s heart and home, too—well, out of his home, at least. Trent wondered what would become of her when they landed back in the States. He hoped that she'd get the trauma counseling that she needed to heal, and that she'd be adopted by a loving family, desperate for a child to spoil with love. He tried to believe that she would.

He had to believe that she would, or he'd do something reckless like try and convince Clay to keep her for a night or two while he made a game plan to find her a forever family, close to heart and close to home ... 

"Her name is Amara." Clay said suddenly, starting Trent. 

Trent looked up at him, painfully aware of his own sobriety. His blood burned for a finger of whiskey. 

"What?" He asked. 

"Before she fell asleep, she told me her name," Clay whispered. "It's Amara. Did you know that translates to 'mercy'? 'Kindness', too. Her parents ... must have really loved her. Too bad this ugly, godforsaken world hasn't shown her an ounce of it. She deserves better than this." 

Clay's soft words had a sharp, vehement edge; He curled his fingers tighter into Amara's ragged shirt and pressed his cheek against the top of her head. Trent bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw the metallic taste of blood. 

_'Don't be reckless,'_ He thought. _'Don't you dare be reckless ...'_

Trent wished that he had Ray Perry's steadfast self-discipline. But only for a moment. 


	9. 09. SEEN.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> clay asks a question that feels like an open wound. 
> 
> -
> 
> for my love, burnmedown.  
> our boys. ❤

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm. kind of hate this. 
> 
> just a quick lil something-something i wrote on my phone while i was waiting in line at wendy's. so u know. one day i'll write something decent and full of plot and action again. one... day... 
> 
> inspiration is hard to come by. and so is motivation to finish current projects. but i'm trying. 
> 
> luv u babies.

**09\. SEEN.**

“Do you ever think about the future?” Clay asked, tracing his thumb along the outline of the bruise on Brian’s throat.

It was ugly already, not even forty-eight hours afterward; The shape of a terrorist’s hand, deep violet in color and tinged blue around the edges, like the hypoxic lips of a dying man, or the late evening sky before a twister. It almost camouflaged the long, thin scar on the side of his throat. From a knife wound, no doubt. Clay brushed his thumb against that, too. 

“Not really,” Brian said. “I didn’t think I’d live this long, to be honest.”

He paused, seeming to steady himself, then continued, “I figured I’d starve to death first. There were a few times I really thought that I was—that it was over right then and there.” 

Clay nodded and said nothing. He knew better than to push for details. Brian had always been tight-lipped and short-tempered about who he was before he became a sailor and a Navy SEAL, though on occasion he'd let a detail or two slip. Clay clung to those little details like lifelines in a storm and filed them away for later.

“Do you think about the future?” Brian asked, turning his head to look at Clay. 

Even with the bedcovers tangled only around their legs and hanging halfway off the bed, and even with the sweat and come cooling rapidly on his skin, Clay felt hot under the weight of Brian’s gaze. Fevered. Like his skin was simmering. Like a fever was breaking. He licked his lips.

And, God, that was the thing about Brian: there always seemed to be weight in his eyes, and in his words, and in his gestures—something hiding just beneath the surface always seemed to be on the precipice of crushing him, **of silencing the words that Clay knew he was so desperate to speak.**

( Clay didn’t have to know Brian, to know Brian. ) 

“I didn’t used to,” Clay said. “I had my whole life mapped out in my head, ya know? Enlist, because a SEAL like my old man, become a Tier One Operator. I never imagine anything beyond that. No wife, no kids. Certainly no ... you. Part of me didn’t believe I’d ever make it this far.” 

“All the way to Bravo Team?”

“Yeah. But … then I went to BUD/S and I met you. And now, I don't know—I’m thinking about a lot of things. I’m wondering if my future might look a little different now.” 

Brian smiled that soft, achingly warm smile of his. “Different how?” 

Clay shrugged and flung his leg over Brian’s. Tucked into Brian’s side, he felt safer and more content than he'd ever felt before. With Brian, Clay felt known in a way that he’d never been known before. _He felt seen._ (Which is why it hurt so badly that Brian still wouldn’t offer more than a glimpse of who he used to be; He wanted Brian to feel known and seen, too.) 

“Like, us in a house instead of your sad, sad undecorated apartment,” Clay said through half a laugh, “A house with a yard, and a flagpole, and a two car garage. We’re happy, ya’ know? We finally have something that’s ours, and no one can fucking touch it. Or us.” 

A pause. Then Clay said, almost bashfully, “We’re happy. I never thought that we could be happy.” 

Brian shifted to lie on his side, so that he faced Clay. Their noses almost touched. 

“You’ve made me happy since the moment I met you,” Brian said quietly, as though it were a secret he swore to never tell. “Even when you drive me up the goddamn wall, you make me happy. Even when you won't stop ranting about Jason Hayes." 

Clay squeezed his eyes shut. “You make me happy too, even with that obnoxious fucking Cajun accent of yours.” 

Brian grinned. “You like my accent.” 

“Whatever you say, you fruit.” Clay shot back.

Brian laughed and kissed Clay’s mouth. It felt like the easiest thing in the world. Like coming home after a long day in the throes of heat of dust and blood. 

"Okay," Brian said. "Let's buy a house." 

"Let's buy a house," Clay repeated, and kissed him again.


End file.
